I lined my sites against the scrawny-feathered chest. The heat radiated off the blued steel barrel as my eyes watered in the icy breeze.  I blinked constantly, each time readjusting my aim.  My target, at some twenty yards away, looked like a fluffy gray ball against the white snow.

Sparrows huddled together at the end of the driveway in one of the tire tracks where the gravel sprang up from beneath the dirty brown snow.

I took a deep breath, and let it out.  The end of the barrel rose and fell to relax on my target.  I did this three times to exact my pattern.  I let out the final breath and pulled the trigger.  The gun popped and jerked slightly beneath my chin.  I felt the force of my ten pumps unfurl behind the BB, propelling it out at five hundred ninety-five feet per second.

I felt satisfied in that split second. I controlled the situation with my prowess and a perfectly executed plan.  I had power.

And then it hit.

The quiet flurry of little wings broke the stillness.  The birds rose and scattered in the air as nature had intended, a defensive maneuver to save the greatest number and sacrifice the smallest.  I watched them fly away, except for one.  It didn’t move at the end of the driveway.

I jumped down the three cement porch steps and crossed the snow-covered lawn, my frozen white tundra.  I carried my gun at the ready, alert to any movement.  The air stood still, my breath froze in front of my face.  I watched my target.  It didn’t move.  It should hear me now, I thought.  My feet crushed through the ice as I stepped.

A movement in the air above suddenly caught my eye.  I stopped, as a hunter should, to alert myself in full to my surroundings.  Another bird, evidently one which earlier flew away at the sound of my muzzle, glided back to the bare tire track.  It scurried a few steps and stopped just short of the other bird, the one that didn’t fly.

I stood silent.  I could not move.  A voice in my head shouted, “Bingo, a two for one!”  But I still could not move.

The bird tilted its head, seemingly to look at the other at its feet.  It jerked its head up.  It looked at me.  And then it looked into the sky, but only for a moment.  And then back at me.

It stayed only briefly, and then flew away.  I don’t know why the thought of never seeing that bird again bothered me so much.

I continued my trek to the end of the driveway.  On either side, a snow filled ditch gave evidence to how much had fallen the two nights before.  I knew I would sink to my crotch if I slipped off the edge.

I approached carefully.  I owned the moment.  I owned the bird.  With the gun lowered to my side I used the tip of my boot to nudge it.  It fell sideways.  It’s soft down feathers, still fluffed around its body, blew in the arctic breeze.

I watched it lay there.  A bitter cold ran down my spine and paralyzed my legs and arms.

At that moment I forgot the biting cold.  I felt cheated.  I had done what I had known, acted as I should have.  I’d watched the hunters in the field across the street walk in lines to scare up pheasant.  I’d listened to the other kids brag of going along and watching their fathers seek out the quail and even doves.

But no one told me I’d feel like this.  I was sorry.  I claimed life as if it were mine all along, yet it never belonged to me.

I looked around.   I looked at the trees and the field, both empty, both dead from winter.  I looked back at my house where I knew my mother and brother were safe and warm.  Smoke rose from the chimney.  I wondered what my father would have thought.  I wished he were here.

I looked back at the tree across the street.  High in the branches huddled a twisted brown nest.  Last summer I had tried to climb the tree and return a baby bird I found fluttering on the ground.  I couldn’t reach it so I brought the bird home.  It lived another day.  My mother had said I had tried my best.  She had told me how proud I made her.

I looked down again.  The bird’s little black eyes stared forward.  I couldn’t tell if they looked at me.

I crouched and touched the back of the bird’s head.  It wobbled back and forth against the pressure.  Its eyes seemed to suspend the life it had just a few minutes ago.  I remembered, years ago, the lonely tears in my mother’s eyes after my father had died.

Maybe it’s just stunned, I thought.  I rolled it over to expose its chest.  A small spot of blood just off center to its left confirmed my aim.  The two hours I’d spent the day before, to adjust the sights, to oil the barrel and hinges and compression chamber, was the only price I’d paid for this moment.  I owed more.

I wondered if the bird knew of the good I’d done, about the baby bird I’d tried to save.  I guess it didn’t matter anymore, I thought.  I felt alone.

I looked around for a clue of what to do next.  I could think only of burying it like I had done my dog when he died.  Snow covered the frozen ground.  Even if I found earth it would be too hard to dig a hole.  I remembered the ditch.  The snow was deep enough to stay for a while and cover the sparrow properly.  It was my only option.

I dug a hole as deep as my arms extended.

My throat clenched tight yet seemed hollow like holding captive a moth inside my fist.  I tried to swallow the tears but one escaped.  It ran down my cheek before I could sop it up with my knitted glove.

I picked up the limp sparrow and laid it gently in the hole.  I stood and stared into the eyes at the bottom of that cold grave.  Then I forced myself to push the piled snow back into the hole with my boot until it filled.  I broke two of the straightest twigs from a nearby bush and laid them across each other on the mound to form a rough cross.  I knew I’d never see it again.

***

Ten years later I stood, listening to the birds in the trees surrounding the small grassy clearing, and looked down at the brown granite headstone.  Engraved in the center, below the words “Husband and Father” was a proud buck.  It stood, carved deep in the metal plate, with antlers forked like branches from a tree.  I remembered my mother telling me hunting was his favorite sport.